


Liminal Tea-Time At The Coin Tavern Speakeasy

by sleepfight



Series: Enter The De Sardetverse [1]
Category: GreedFall (Video Game)
Genre: Based off requests, Bathing/Washing, Crymaxing, Cuddling, D/s, Date Night, F/M, Hair-pulling, Hand Feeding, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Major Character Injury, Massage, Oral Sex, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Praise Kink, Scars, Service Top, Size Kink, String Theory As An Excuse To Make Characters Bang, Stripping, Topping from the Bottom, Trans Male Character, love and support
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-24
Updated: 2019-12-26
Packaged: 2021-02-26 15:27:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,241
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21940384
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sleepfight/pseuds/sleepfight
Summary: Percy De Sardet finds a key in a cave near Dorgred and thinks nothing of it until a new door appears behind the bar at the Coin Tavern. A strange, new space has manifested upstairs and it seems Percy is not the only De Sardet who has found a way to access it.Or: Percy meets a bunch of other De Sardets and proceeds to fuck his way through the Greedfall multiverse.
Relationships: De Sardet/De Sardet, Male De Sardet/Female De Sardet, Male De Sardet/Male De Sardet
Series: Enter The De Sardetverse [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1582057
Comments: 2
Kudos: 10





	1. [Introduction]

**Author's Note:**

> A COUPLE OF NOTES BEFORE WE BEGIN
> 
> This started initially as a discussion about shipping OCs which turned into a jokey request for DS/DS prompts which turned into this nonsense because I am incapable of leaving things be. I was just going to write a bunch of horny little drabbles but I thought it might be kind of cute to string everything together with some semblance of a plot so now everybody gets a whole ass fic. Each chapter can be read as a standalone but I've peppered in some Easter eggs and cameos here and there so keep your eyes peeled, your De Sardet might appear more than once! Requests are currently closed while I get the current round finished but this was a lot of fun and if there is still interest down the road, I'll open things back up again!
> 
> I've tagged for most of the core prompts but will add additional tags at the beginning of each chapter. Chapter titles will contain the pairing, rating, and kink/prompt info-- not every request was explicit but since many of them were, my hope is that this system will allow readers to skip over any raunchy business they aren't interested in. Default rating for all SFW prompts is still T just to cover language, alcohol use, etc. 
> 
> For the purposes of having a good time, I ask that you not think too hard about any of this. We're gonna pretend that Greedfall has an affinity system like FO4 where everyone is just poly and happy to be here so any existing relationships with companions are still healthy and going strong outside of the tavern while the De Sardets get busy with each other. Don't get hung up on cheating, it doesn't exist here.
> 
> Lastly, my De Sardet is transgender so there will be explicit scenes celebrating trans bodies and trans sexuality. I am trans masc and write from my own perspectives but no two people feel dysphoria or euphoria the same way and I cannot speak for anyone but myself so keep that in mind if you run into something outside of your own experiences. I will never feature feminizing language or transphobia in any of my fics and always strive to portray joy, liberation, and unquestioning acceptance in these relationships. I write for the comfort and entertainment of other trans people first and foremost and prioritizing that comfort is very important to me-- please know that I have tried my hardest to ensure this is a happy read for everyone. 
> 
> Okay, I think that's it. I hope you enjoy this absurdity as much as I've enjoyed writing it.

It starts deep within a cave system near their campsite in the northern forests of Dorgred.

“What have you got there?” Kurt asks as Percy sets the lantern down to kneel before an ancient looking chest. Though most of the cavern has been unpleasant and damp, this solitary corner seems untouched by the elements and the unpainted box is bone-dry and brittle with a thick blanket of grime obscuring the rusted brass fixtures.

“Not sure,” Percy replies. He lays a palm on the lid of the box and pushes down to test the strength of its hinges. The wood creaks but holds so Percy reaches for the ring of tools on his belt and slides two of the longest picks into the keyhole. “It doesn’t look like anything I’ve seen in the villages but it bears no seal. Perhaps a lost bandit cache?” 

Kurt shifts the grip he has on his sword at that and moves to stand at Percy’s back while he continues to fiddle with the lid. After a few moments of gentle coaxing, there is a puff of dust and the lock springs open.

Percy lifts the lantern up to get a better look and raises a curious eyebrow when the orange flicker of light is reflected by the gleaming treasure inside: a large, gilded skeleton key.

“Anything?” Kurt asks.

Percy picks up the key and holds it between two fingers, holding it up so Kurt can see. The head is elaborately decorated with delicate threads of braided, golden filigree which nest around a flawless opalescent gem in the center, dulled by time but still sparkling marvelously.

Percy hums and turns it over in his hand. “It’s too large to be the key for the box it was in,” he says. “I think we can say for certain that it is not of native origin, however. Perhaps this is related to the research left behind by Professor Serafeddin? Sir De Courcillon may have some insight.”

Kurt nods and holds a hand out for Percy to take, hefting him to his feet again. “We’ll be back to New Sérène in two days time,” he grunts and waits for Percy to shake the dirt off his knees before starting back toward the path to the cave entrance. “It’ll be dark soon. Let’s get back to camp.”

Percy secures the key in the front pocket of his knapsack and hurries to catch up with Kurt.

“Right behind you,” he says.

* * *

When they arrive home in New Sérène a few nights later, Percy’s first priority is a long bath and a hot meal. He makes a beeline for the facilities and spends the evening leisurely scrubbing himself clean of the many humid miles traveled and takes a bit of extra time to give his beard a trim and relax his overtired muscles while the water is still hot. Though the tub is short enough that Percy’s long legs hang over the edge when he sinks down, it is still the most comfortable he has been in weeks and he groans in pleasure as he feels all the tense little pains in his body ease into a comfortable soreness. He has yearned for few luxuries since his arrival on Tir Fradi but bubble baths are the one frivolous activity he still tries to indulge in often. 

It would be more enjoyable if he had company but to his chagrin, all of his companions have dispersed to meet with their respective leaders. He can usually at least tempt Vasco into tardiness if a bath is involved but even his favorite Naut was anxious to debrief with Admiral Cabral so Percy has resigned himself to a mellow evening alone.

After dressing in comfortable breeches and a light shirt and vest, Percy grabs his knapsack and makes for the Coin Tavern. After so many days of wild game and fruit leather, he’s craving the starchy comfort of cooked vegetables and fresh bread, the last component required before he can collapse into bed and sleep off the worst aches of the rough journey back.

He’s so exhausted that he doesn’t notice how empty the tavern is until he has already claimed a table and placed his order with the barkeep. As he sips his ale, Percy scans the room and finds that he is alone but for the kitchen staff and servers, prompting a creep of unease up his back with each vacant seat he passes over. Odd for it to be so quiet when most folk in town would be done with their work by now. Odder still for the curtains to be drawn before midnight.

“Slow night?” He inquires when the barkeep comes to deliver a tray laden with rich stew and potatoes to his table. The clatter of silverware is loud in the otherwise vacuous silence. 

“No, sir,” is the gruff reply. “Busier than ever, in fact, can’t seem to catch my breath. Go sit at the bar upstairs if you want company.”

Percy frowns and sets his drink down to consider the barman carefully, well on his guard now. “Did you mean to say downstairs?” He asks. “I’ve been here for months now and I’ve never seen an upstairs in this part of the building.”

“Sure you have,” he says and jerks a thumb behind him to the far side of the bar, to a red door behind the counter that Percy has never noticed until now. “Through there and up to the attic.” He points at the knapsack on Percy’s belt. “Don’t forget your key.”

He doesn’t give Percy a chance to react to that before he disappears through the hall to the kitchen and barks at someone to bring another cask of wine from the cellar. Licking his lips, Percy glances at the red door, appetite lost all of a sudden. He had forgotten all about the key he unearthed from the caves in Dorgred and _certainly_ has not spoken to anyone in New Sérène about it in the three or so hours he’s been back. Kurt could have stopped for a drink before reporting in but Percy has never known him to be one for idle chat with strangers.

Something strange is going on.

Beer abandoned on the table, Percy approaches the door and leans down to press his ear against the wood. It is silent on the other side so far as he can tell. When he tests the handle, the metal is warm in his palm, as if someone else has just passed through. It is also locked.

He unbuttons his satchel and plucks out the golden key from inside, a bit alarmed when he finds it too is preternaturally hot. Percy takes a deep breath and looks around the empty tavern. He should leave. He should wrap up his dinner and come back to investigate this when he has Kurt and the others to watch his back. 

But on the off chance this _isn’t_ an obvious trap… 

Well, Percy has never been a fan of dining alone.

He slides the key into the lock and twists it, half-expecting it won’t fit. It turns smoothly and the red door opens a crack.

When there is no great explosion of magic or poison, Percy steps through the threshold, the top of the door brushing against a small set of chimes that jingle to signal his arrival. Before him, a narrow corridor of stairs climbs up at a steep angle into murky darkness.

“Hello?” He calls. There is no answer but the shiver of falling dust as he takes the first step and begins his ascent. He hikes for what feels like minutes, far higher than should be possible in such a stout structure, but eventually he reaches a platform with another door, painted green with a great tree carved into the wood. This one has no handle and swings open easily when Percy pushes against it.

The change in atmosphere is palpable at once. Muffled conversation cuts through the clink and clatter of drinks and plates being tended to and a young woman is posted by the fire with a violin, playing an upbeat melody that gives Percy the strangest sense of deja-vu, though he does not recognize the song. 

True to the barkeep’s word, there is indeed a lively crowd up here.

A long counter stretches the length of the attic which is built like a tower with a circular floor and no windows, high-hung lamps and a roaring hearth the only sources of light in the dim room. The tables are set low to the floor and most have patrons that lounge on pillows or thick mats rather than chairs, though several plush couches line the outer walls where groups of people are gathered to chat.

Percy takes a cautious step further. He can taste magic in the air but it’s too vague to identify, like the ghost of mint in a lover’s kiss, and it takes a moment for him to realize he isn’t just imagining it.

“All right there, m’lord?” 

Percy startles and spins around. Behind him, the same barkeep from downstairs is leaned against the counter, rolling a toothpick between his teeth as he calmly polishes a rack of crystal wine glasses. He looks just the same as he did only moments ago but now, instead of an apron and slacks, he is buttoned down in a fine, wool suit with opalescent cuff links that glint in the firelight.

“Yes, yes I’m fine, I’m just-” Percy shakes his head, blinking hard. “I’m... sorry, but weren’t you wearing something else when I first came in?”

“No, sir, been here all evening.” He sets down a clean glass and fills it with a deep pour of red wine, then slides it over the marble counter top to Percy. “Your preferred vineyard, m’lord, as usual.”

Dumbly, Percy takes the glass and brings it to his lips before he can consider what a lethal decision that might be. The bouquet is ripe and dry and unmistakable: the cheapest bottle of mass-produced table wine a young, rebellious noble could buy from the grocer in Sérène. He and Constantin have nursed many a rotten hangover from this swill and though Percy no longer goes sneaking through windows for drunken excursions with his cousin, the astringent blend has remained a fond favorite of his over the years.

Not that an unnamed bartender in far off lands should know that.

"You're in familiar company, sir," the barman says, as if he can read Percy's thoughts. He nods to the room behind Percy then goes back to polishing glasses.

Percy puts the wine down and rotates to _really_ look around this time. Now that he's paying close attention, he can hear the strange quality to the ambient conversation in the room. There are dozens of people talking over each other across multiple tables and yet there seems to be only two distinct voices that he can discern, one feminine and one masculine. The masculine voice in particular is disturbingly familiar, right down to the cadence and laughter. It’s identical to his own. 

The moment recognition clicks into place, Percy's heart starts to hammer. 

A gloved hand settles on his shoulder. 

"Are you okay?" A man with soft, sea-blue eyes asks with Percy's voice. He has fresh looking Naut tattoos on his chin and the same feathered cap Percy has hanging in his closet at home, a concerned expression on his face as he stands beside Percy at the bar. "If you'll pardon my saying so, you look a bit lost."

Percy is rooted to the spot, aghast. This man who shares his voice also shares his birthmark; on his left cheek, a twist of green and brown tissue curls over his jaw and down to his neck. Percy has seen the same mark reflected in the mirror his entire life and even in the dim glow of candle light, he can see patterns in the swirls that he knows intimately. Their marks are too similar to be coincidental.

He grasps the strange man's wrists and pulls himself away, taking a step backward toward the door. Percy is looking from face to face now and feels his pulse thud when he discovers that _every_ person in the bar has his mark on their face. No two people look alike (or anything like him for that matter) but the commonality is undeniable.

"De Sardet?" Tattoo man says gently. "Perhaps you should sit down, you-"

"I have to go," Percy blurts. He drops whatever coin he has on the counter to pay for the wine and uneaten food from earlier and hurries back the way he came, downstairs to the tavern below. 

He freezes on the other side of the red door. The barman is in his apron and slacks, sweeping the entryway. 

He fishes something out of his front pocket and tosses it to Percy.

"Don't forget your key," he grunts.

Percy gapes at the plundered treasure in his palm. Without thinking, he shoves it into his vest then bursts through the front door back into the cold streets of New Sérène, putting as much distance as possible between himself and the tavern.

He stops by the docks to catch his breath, holding a hand to his chest while he tries to process what the hell just happened. He must have either injured himself or is far more exhausted than he feels because the only other explanation is that he stumbled through a portal into a room full of mimics.

He digs his palms into his eyes and spends a few minutes breathing in and out, attempting to center himself.

He concludes that he is tired and delirious and scrubs a hand through his hair as he turns on his heel, back in the direction of his home. He will get a good night of rest and ruminate on these strange happenings once he has a clear head.

When he gets to his shared residence, Percy is glad to find the house silent and goes right to the master bedroom on the second floor. He strips down to his underwear and tosses the rest of his clothes into the hamper, pausing to retrieve the key when it falls from his vest pocket onto the floor.

It feels ice-cold in his hand.

Percy chucks it into the nightstand and slams the drawer shut before he tugs back the covers and forces himself to get comfortable in bed.

 _Tomorrow_ he thinks. _I will figure this out tomorrow._


	2. [Percy/Mavin] -T- Cuddling, Poetry

Percy wakes the next morning no less bothered by his encounter at the bar. 

The opal key is still in his nightstand. It sits like any harmless trinket, no visible signs of magic of supernatural qualities, and yet it still feels like a stone weight in Percy’s pocket as he trudges across town to the Coin Tavern, determined to get some answers. He supposes it would behoove him to at least check in with Kurt first but the annoyance that lingers from a less than restful sleep bolsters him to go on his own, before he can lose his nerve.

He also would rather keep it to himself if all of this does turn out to be a massive hallucination. It wouldn’t do for him to make a spectacle of himself over a misunderstanding.

The chances of that being the case go out the window when Percy enters and finds the barkeep right where he left him the night before, still sweeping up the otherwise vacant first floor.

“Good morning, your excellency,” he pauses and says, nodding to Percy. “Breakfast upstairs if you’re peckish, peace and quiet down here if you’re in need of it.”

Percy hovers in the entryway, hands flexing at his sides. “And if I were looking for company?” He asks. “Would I find that upstairs as well?”

“Aye,” the barkeep says and steps to the side so Percy has a clear view of the red door behind him. “You know the way up, just don’t forget--”

“My key,” Percy finishes for him and pulls it from his pocket. 

“Quick one you are indeed, my lord.”

Percy keeps an eye on the barkeep as he crosses the room in a few long strides, dallying by the door before he unlocks it, just to see if he will try to stop him. But the man continues to sweep without a further glance up so Percy moves into the stairwell, shutting the door behind him.

This time, he is prepared for the initial disorientation of the longer-than-should-be-possible climb to the top as well as the bartender who once again has materialized behind a rack of sparkling champagne flutes.

“Good morning, your excellency.”

Percy squints at him; opens his mouth then closes it, shaking his head in bewilderment. 

“Good morning,” he replies and steps further into the room. 

There aren’t as many patrons now but the bar is still occupied by several people who sit at scattered tables with plates of food. Most of them are partnered with one or two others, chatting with the same eerily similar voice, but there is one man seated alone by the fire who turns in his chair and waves Percy over with a smile. He doesn’t have his hat on but Percy still recognizes him as the tattooed man who attempted to calm him down last night. 

“Welcome back,” the man greets warmly. He rises to his feet with the practiced ease of a trained noble and motions for Percy to take the open chaise beside him. “I was hoping I’d see you again. You haven’t been here before, have you?”

Percy does not move from his place by the counter, considering the man with suspicion. He _does_ appear to be armed but his rapier is sheathed and leaned against the wall near the hearth, not far out of reach but space enough that Percy would have time to defend himself should it come to that. He also has a few decorative rings on each hand. There is no way to tell if this man is trained in magic or simply fashionable, however, so Percy cautiously accepts the invitation and inches closer.

“I’ve been to the tavern before,” he says. He sits down and the man moves to pour him a cup of tea from a porcelain pot on the table, offering it to Percy on a saucer with several cubes of sugar. “The… _upstairs_ is new, though.”

The man chuckles and settles into his chair again. “Must have just found your key, then.” He leans forward so his loosely gathered auburn hair falls over one shoulder, framing the sharp features of his pale, angular face and drawing Percy’s eyes to the mark on his cheek. “Mine was in a stream close to Hikmet. Where was it for you?”

“A cave near Dorgred.”

“That’s pretty standard.” 

Percy scowls and draws the key from his pocket, setting both it and his tea down on the table with a touch more force than intended. The china clatters, sloshing hot tea over his fingers.

“I think I’d like to know what exactly you mean by that,” he snaps a little helplessly. “What is going on here? Who are these people? Why do you all have the same mark as me?” 

The man holds his palms up in surrender. “Easy, easy,” he says, voice even and mild the same way Percy’s is whenever he’s trying to placate negotiations with hostile trade partners. “Why don’t we start with introductions? My name is Mavin.”

Percy narrows his eyes. “Mavin _who?_ ”

“Mavin De Sardet, legate to the Congregation Of Merchants” he clarifies. His smile drops, pulling at the dark lines of his tattoo, and for a brief moment his expression goes elsewhere, far off to a place Percy cannot see. “Though I suppose that isn’t quite what I’m doing these days.”

“Impossible,” Percy says. 

“I assure you, it is not.”

“It _is_ ,” Percy insists. “Because _I_ am legate to the Congregation.”

Mavin quirks one manicured eyebrow and fixes Percy with an amused look, fingers steepled in front of his face. “And surely because you are also De Sardet?”

“Also?” Percy scoffs and shakes his head. “There is no ‘also’, I _am_ De Sardet.”

“De Sardet _who_?” Mavin’s eyes sparkle with amusement and it makes Percy want to break his chair in half because he walked himself right into that one. It would seem Mavin is rather skilled at keeping his conversation partners off balance. Another bizarre similarity. 

“Percival,” Percy says, glaring over the table. “Percival De Sardet.”

“Interesting,” Mavin muses, light and interested as if he means it. “Do you go by Percy or Percival?”

“Percy.”

“That makes three, then, although only two of you use the nickname. After you meet them, you ought to start a club.”

Percy takes a deep breath and tries not to let his temper flare but his patience has worn thin by Mavin’s evasive explanation. Mavin, though, is observant and clearly senses that Percy is in no mood to play because he sighs and crosses one leg over the other, taking a long, thoughtful drink of tea while scrutinizing Percy’s reaction. It’s a familiar tactic and it makes Percy squirm, just as it intends for him to.

“Percy, I must be honest,” Mavin says finally. “I don’t understand what’s going on here any better than you. The red door appeared for me after I found my key and I was just as shocked as you are now when I found my way up here.”

He leans back is chair and sweeps a hand across the room in a broad stroke, gesturing to the other patrons, many of whom are now subtly observing Mavin and Percy’s conversation. 

“Everyone here is De Sardet,” Mavin says. “You, me, and each one of them. Everyone seems to be at different points in their lives but there are many cases of identical histories. And I’m sure the mark on our faces has not escaped your attention.”

Gaping at Mavin, Percy clenches his hand around the tea saucer to keep himself from dropping it. “You cannot expect me to believe that.”

Mavin shrugs. “You’re welcome to introduce yourself to someone else if you need further evidence,” he says. “I think you’ll find rather quickly that a deception of this caliber would be impossible, even by the most skilled of mages. 

“Pretend for a moment that I believe you,” Percy says and rubs his temple with two fingers, trying to humor this absurd explanation. “What is this place, then? How are we all here?”

“Ah, that is yet our greatest mystery. Aphra-- _my_ Aphra--is working on a theory. Something about parallel universes and vibrating strings, it’s all very scientific and honestly, above my comprehension.” Mavin picks up Percy’s key from the table and holds it in his palm alongside an identical key that he retrieves from a leather cord around his neck. “The important bit is that these give us access to come inside.”

“So this is-what, some kind of…” Percy trails off. He isn’t sure he has the words to describe his thoughts but Mavin waits patiently with both hands folded in his lap. 

“It is a space in-between,” Mavin says. “Some sort of nexus point fueled by the powerful magics alive on Tir Fradi. Try not to dwell on it too hard, none of us really understand it either.”

Percy stares at Mavin for a long time while his brain struggles to process a single word he’s heard in the last half hour. It is a futile task. 

“Right then,” Percy huffs and drains his tea in one long gulp, setting the cup down and climbing to his feet. “I’m dreaming. Understood.”

That gets a laugh out of Mavin and he rises as well. He plucks his feathered hat from the hook by the fire and tucks his hair underneath it before sliding into his coat and collecting his sword. 

“That is how I prefer to think about it as well,” he says. “Why don’t we go for a walk? Some fresh air might help clear your head.”

Still rather stupefied, Percy agrees and follows Mavin back down the stairs to the first floor of the bar, weakly acknowledging the barkeep who continues to sweep behind the counter. 

“Wait,” he says, stopping by the door and catching Mavin by the elbow to halt him. “What happens if we leave?”

Mavin turns to face him and takes Percy’s larger hand in his own, pressing the opal key back into his palm and curling his fingers around it.

“As long as we both have our key, we can come and go as we please,” he explains and points to the windows. “Out there, though, we’ll either land in _your_ New Sérène or _my_ New Sérène. No way to choose which but I have yet to run into trouble getting back.”

He bows slightly and opens the front door, politely holding it open for Percy.

“After you,” he says.

The crisp, tepid air outside is a surprise and the first indication that Percy is no longer where he woke up. New Sérène has been bracing for the first snowfall of winter for weeks but here, the trees are still shedding their yellow and orange leaves and the merchant stalls are packed to bursting with colorful gourds and braids of golden wheat.

Percy allows Mavin to lead their route, the strangeness of the situation diffusing with each block. Mavin is personable and considerate and Percy follows him through the winding streets of New Sérène as the other man points out little differences that he has noticed between his world and others. For the most part, they are minor variances: a vendor who works out of the opposite corner, a cat rather than a dog, a postbox that is red instead of white. There is nothing in particular that stands out as being entirely foreign.

At least until they wander to the waterfront. 

_The Sea-Horse_ is moored in the harbor as she frequently is but this version of the ship has been retrofitted with strips of gold along the bow as well as enormous, blood-red sails. 

“I’ve been on Tir Fradi quite a lot longer than you, I think,” Mavin says when he notices Percy admiring the new features. “Vasco was named commander of the fleet several months ago and the ship received several upgrades in honor of his promotion.”

“She looks beautiful,” Percy says. 

Mavin takes Percy’s hand and tugs him along the wet docks. “Come, I’ll show you the best view in New Sérène.”

Percy nods enthusiastically and lets himself be led through the belly of the ship, not realizing he still has a hold on Mavin until they have to separate in order to climb the ladder to the upper decks. Once they’ve both pushed out of the hatch, Mavin walks to the center mast and begins hauling himself up the pegs to the crowsnest. 

“Hope you aren’t afraid of heights!” He calls but Percy is already shimming up behind him, eager to see what’s at the top.

He isn’t disappointed. After he manages to clear the platform and drop in beside Mavin, his breath is momentarily stolen by the sight of the horizon beyond; a cold, autumn sun low in the waning daylight hours like a brilliant, burning pearl, ferried upon a crawl of late-afternoon mist. Above, the sky is a limitless streak of violet that reaches down to touch crystalline ocean waters and from this elevation, Percy can see beyond the curve of the coastline to the ashen cone of Tir Fradi’s great volcano. Gulls cry in the distance and he revels in the dizzy wonder of it all.

“Incredible,” Percy exclaims, falling back into the basket. “You know, I’ve been here for weeks now and I still haven’t quite acclimated to how different it is here. I’m not sure I’ve ever seen something so beautiful.”

He glances over at Mavin and feels his delight falter when he sees that faraway look tugging at his tattoos again, drawing Mavin's handsome angles into an absent, unhappy frown.

“I used to think that way too,” Mavin says quietly. His hand drifts to his head to remove his hat, letting the breeze catch the loose lengths of his hair as he stares out at the sea. “Now I fear I will never look at it the same way again.”

A concerned flutter goes through Percy’s chest at the sudden shift in Mavin's mood and he sits up straighter to give him his full attention, worried. He places his hand on Mavin’s arm and squeezes. 

“Mavin,” he prods gently. “Are you well?”

Mavin drags his knees to his chest, breath steady and calm when he sighs, and glances back at Percy. His eyes are clear again but the perturbed, anxious air around him remains. 

“Someday, perhaps,” Mavin says with a crooked smile. “Once I have put some distance between myself and these memories.”

Though he has not said as much, it is not hard to tell that something on Tir Fradi has left Mavin with an ache that lingers. He has been bright and engaged in their conversations of the present but has not spoken of his past or his experiences on the island which has left Percy wondering what fresh trauma has made a home in his new friend-- and what may be waiting in his own future.

Mavin breaks the tension by slinging an arm around Percy’s neck so he can knock their shoulders together, leaning into his side. “But that is why you are here with me now, Percy, to give me one last good memory before I set sail from this place for a very long time. Did I mention I’m leaving tomorrow?”

Surprised, Percy slips his arm around Mavin’s slim waist to better settle into the half-embrace and pulls their bodies flush, always comfortable with casual closeness and pleased that Mavin has invited it. 

“You did not mention that,” he says. He brings his free hand to Mavin’s face and brushes the pad his thumb down his chin, following the gray lines of the Sea-given tattoo to where the design ends at his long, porcelain neck. “I would wager you are not returning to the continent, however.”

His eyes shine and there is a spark of genuine joy in Mavin's voice when he confirms Percy’s suspicion. “In the morning, I will follow the tide to new unknowns,” he says and lets his head fall to rest on Percy’s shoulder with a wan smile. “To hopefully find a kinder sky.”

Percy, usually so quick with his words, finds nothing he could say that would soothe the pang that sends through his heart so instead, he just tilts his head against Mavin’s and hopes the other man takes some comfort in his presence on the eve of this new departure. After a few minutes of easy silence, Mavin takes Percy’s other hand in his and laces their fingers together before closing his eyes and murmuring:

“The sky is low, the clouds are mean,  
A travelling flake of snow  
Across a barn or through a rut  
Debates if it will go.

“A narrow wind complains all day  
How some one treated him;  
Nature, like us, is sometimes caught  
Without her diadem.” 

As he finishes the poem, Mavin’s voice trails off into a weary sigh that warms the skin of Percy’s neck. “Forgive me,” he says. “I often get carried away in my melancholy.” 

Percy lifts their joined hands so that he can kiss the back of Mavin’s knuckles, smiling as he does. “Don’t apologize,” he admonishes lightly. “I of all people should understand how one might need to take shelter behind pretty words.”

Taking a shuddering breath, Mavin nods, eyes soft when he turns his head to look at Percy. He squeezes his hand. “You will find that is a common trait among us,” he says. “Still, I was being truthful when I said my intentions were to leave the island in lighter spirits and you have been a great help in achieving that. I’m glad the tavern didn’t frighten you off for good.”

“I’m glad you were there to cushion my landing,” Percy grins and starts to pull away but has to pause when the other man just tightens his grip, as if unwilling to let Percy go. 

Mavin raises an eyebrow, questioning, challenging, and before he can allow himself to overthink it, Percy untangles their hands and lifts his palms to cup Mavin’s cheeks, drawing their faces close so that he can gently press their lips together. Mavin’s hum of relief is reassuring and sweet and he melts into the touch when Percy starts to stroke his thumb over the ridge of his tense brow, brushing away the worry lines that Mavin has carried in his expression all day long. 

The kiss, while chaste, lasts for several long, slow moments. Mavin curls his hands into the loose fabric of Percy’s shirt and Percy is glad to hold him tight, an arm around his waist to keep him steady while their breath mingles in the slow exchange of newfound affection. 

It doesn’t feel strange to experience such an empathetic sentiment so quickly and why should it?

This is all just a dream, Mavin himself even said so.

“I hope you sail under sunny skies, Mavin,” Percy whispers when they finally separate. He lays one last kiss on the corner of his mouth and then envelopes him in warm hug that Mavin returns with vigor, pressing his cheek to Percy’s breast and laying against him in silence until the sun goes down and the evening chill forces them back to the tavern.

They rent a room and spend the night trading anecdotes about their shared companions while Percy pours them wine and combs his fingers through Mavin’s long hair as he lays with his head in Percy's lap. They talk late into the night, until the fire burns to embers, and Percy regrets that he doesn’t remember falling asleep.

In the morning, Mavin is gone and Percy exits the coin tavern back into his own version of New Sérène, just as he expected he would. Stretching, he blinks against the white glare of freshly fallen snow and begins making his way back to his accommodations with a new spring in his step. He hasn’t slept so well since leaving the continent. 

He checks his pocket to ensure he has his key. Perhaps he should stay over at the Coin Tavern more often.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Listen, I write about angst and suckin' dick, poetry is not my strong suit. Mavin's poem is "The Sky Is Low, The Clouds Are Mean " by Emily Dickinson.
> 
> Mavin De Sardet belongs to [poga-a!](https://poga-a.tumblr.com/) Thank you for letting me borrow your boy!


	3. [Percy/Alban] -NC17- Praise Kink, Skin Hunger, Blowjob

After the lovely evening he spent with Mavin, Percy takes the rest of the week to gather his thoughts about the whole situation before he returns to the Coin Tavern. It is lucky timing that his duties take him out of town for several days so he has plenty of time to ruminate on the road, mind preoccupied by what an astonishing discovery he’s made when it is not bogged down by delegations. The tavern raises enormous implications about everything the world knows about magic and yet, he can think of little except what is means for himself _personally._ What about their story-- _De Sardet’s_ story--is so unique and special that the universe has carved them a place to gather? Does such a space exist for every living human? If he were to lend his key to Kurt or Siora, would they too find a room full of doppelgangers? 

Would any of his friends be so narcissistic as to kiss their mysterious counterpart? 

He poses a version of this question to his companions over the flicker of a dying campfire when they are a day’s hike from New Sérène.

“If you were able to meet and befriend yourself as another person, how would you feel?” He asks and laughs when Kurt subtly checks his pack to make sure the whisky hasn’t gone missing. 

Vasco humors him, though, and considers his answer thoughtfully over the last few bites of his supper. 

“I suppose I would be relieved,” he says. “To have someone to talk to who would understand my faults.”

It’s a hypothetical answer to a hypothetical question but it still keeps Percy up all night. Vasco is too keen for his own good sometimes. 

When they return to New Sérène a day later, he bids the others goodnight and takes the long way through town to the tavern.

His thoughts still race through his head even as he climbs the stairs and takes a seat at an empty table in the packed bar. There are many of them here this evening, all in various shades of armor and dress that make Percy wonder who else might just be getting home from the same trip, and most of them have paired off by the time Percy receives his drink and settles in.

Content in solitude for the moment, Percy sips his beer. He mulls over Vasco’s answer while letting his eyes drift from table to table, observing each new De Sardet and how they interact with each other; how closely they sit and how easily they touch, how quickly they can make each other laugh. Percy can’t remember a time when socializing ever looked so simple. Nobility killed the part of himself that could let its guard down a long, long time ago.

Maybe it’s the same for the others, too. Maybe they keep coming back to this place because, like Vasco, they crave a rapport with someone who knows what they’ve been through and will not judge them for it.

Maybe that’s why Percy came back rather than turning heel and running like he should.

As he ponders these things, he spies a man with long, fair hair and an impressive mustache nursing two fingers of scotch in the armchair by the hearth. He sits stiffly, back straight as a brace, and appears to be alone by the circle of vacant seats around him, expression grim and closed off to the rest of the room. By all visible signs, he is not seeking company.

But there are tells. Tells that Percy can recognize because he has similar subconscious routines that give his mood away too. 

The man’s arms are relaxed but he keeps clenching his hand around the glass he holds, turning his knuckles white every few seconds while his other hand fusses with the napkin draped over his knee. He sits in a miasma of clear annoyance but keeps turning his gaze down the line of stools at the bar like he’s waiting for someone to arrive; like he’s _hoping_ for someone to arrive.

_Damn you, Vasco._

Percy drains his glass and stands, new resolve propelling him to this other De Sardet. He is not unpracticed in the art of picking up a stranger from the bar. 

He can be that someone.

“Hello,” he says and gestures to one of the open seats by the fire. “I’m feeling a bit lonely, may I join you?”

The man looks briefly startled by Percy’s presence but after a moment, he nods tersely and sets his drink on the table, holding out his hand for Percy to shake as he moves to sit down.

“Alban De Sardet,” he introduces himself without being prompted, tone a bit clipped but not unwelcoming. “I don’t believe we’ve met.” 

“Percival De Sardet, please call me Percy.”

Alban’s fingers are slender and soft but he meets Percy’s firm handshake with equal mettle, hanging on for just a beat too long before he seems to realize he shouldn’t. He’s quick to grab his glass again, eyes downcast. Percy doesn’t mind and almost says as much but catches himself when it occurs to him that a man as frosty as Alban might not appreciate having attention called to himself.

Instead, Percy nods to the melted ice in Alban’s cup. “That’s looking a bit drowned. Can I buy you another?”

Alban’s eyes narrow and he looks down the slim, straight bridge of his nose to glower at Percy. 

“You want to buy me a drink?” He asks incredulously. “Why?”

Percy shrugs. “I’ve always disliked drinking alone,” he smiles and shakes his own empty glass, which prompts the bartender to appear with an unmarked brown bottle that he leaves on the table as well as two fresh cups. 

As Percy pours a shot for them both, he glances at Alban with a measured amount of poorly concealed sympathy. “Also because I’ve been watching you for a while and if you’ll excuse my boldness, you seemed like you might be feeling lonely as well.”

Alban blinks as he takes the drink offered to him. Percy takes advantage of Alban’s sudden dumbfounded stillness to clink their glasses together.

“To new friends,” he says warmly. “Cheers.”

Alban recovers and leans in quickly to return the gesture, nodding enthusiastically with a small smile that blooms on his face, overtaking the serious expression from before. It softens his features, letting Percy see the handsome young man behind the rather mature choice in facial hair. 

“Cheers,” Alban replies and they both shoot the expensive liqueur like teenager boys with no consideration to the taste or quality. It’s a nice lead into deeper introductions and Percy listens with interest as Alban explains his version of the events that lead him to find his own key buried beneath a haul of fabrics in one of the Naut warehouses. He’s actually quite a spirited talker once he gets going and it cheers Percy to know he’s helped bring him out of his shell a little, even if this bottle is going to cost him his stipends for a week.

Percy is not trying to get either of them drunk, though, so after the initial round of shots, he pours cold water for them both and sips on it, getting cozy in his seat while Alban continues to relax by fractions. He does not seem anxious, per say, but the way he carries himself speaks to some latent discomfort that Percy privately suspects comes from outside the tavern. He’s too composed; too perfectly put-together for it to be anything but a mask to conceal his unease.

Lucky for him, Percy’s whole job is to make other people comfortable.

“I appreciate you taking the time to chat with me,” he says. “I’m new to the tavern and haven’t been able to meet many of the others yet. Have you been on Tir Fradi long?”

Alban shakes his head. “No, I’ve only just arrived. To be honest, the last few days have been quite overwhelming and I’d hoped a drink and some company might settle my nerves.” He scowls into his water, a hint of anger coloring his next words. “But it seems I am just as unappealing a conversationalist here as I was back home. You are the first person to speak to me other than the barkeep.” 

Whether spoken intentionally or not, Percy is impressed by Alban’s blunt honesty. But it also turns the alcohol in his belly to hear him speak of himself in such a way so he reaches out to lay his hand on Alban’s forearm, letting his light grip linger like Alban did when they first greeted each other.

Alban’s eyes lock to where Percy touches him. 

“I’m sure the others were just intimidated,” Percy assures him. “You have quite an intense look about you but believe me when I say there is nothing _unappealing_ about you. Not by my assessment, anyhow.”

“I--” Alban licks his lips and his eyes flick from Percy’s face back to his hand, color rising high on his pale cheeks. “That is-that is very kind of you to say, thank you.”

On a hunch, Percy shifts his chair to better face Alban and turns over his hand so that he can slip a thumb beneath the sleeve of Alban’s heavy doublet, stroking the bare skin of his wrist. Alban sucks in the barest breath and tenses, translucent eyelashes fluttering.

“I remember when I first landed,” Percy begins and lets his fingers wander, unfolding slowly until his palm is pressed against the inside of Alban’s elbow. “After so many months at sea, all I could think about was how long it had been since I’d touched another person. Trying to stay focused on my duties as legate felt impossible. I had a hard time feeling much of anything until just recently.”

Emboldened by the longing stare that Alban fixes to him, Percy takes him by the wrist and lifts his hand so that he can press his lips to Alban’s palm, smiling to himself when that makes the other man’s fingers curl.

"I think I know what you mean," Alban says quietly. 

Percy tilts his head to rest his cheek in Alban’s open hand, holding it to his birthmark, and coaxes their eyes to meet with a soft sigh. 

“I can help you with that,” Percy murmurs. 

Alban gulps. “With focusing?” 

“With feeling.”

Washed out blue eyes widen with understanding and Alban suddenly takes control of his hand again so that he can spread his fingers through Percy’s hair, tentative and slow like he’s worried Percy won’t allow it. Percy smiles and leans into him. 

“I have a room here at the tavern for now,” Alban stammers. “Would you like to-- it is fine if the answer is no but--”

“Alban,” Percy reaches out to catch his chin, tilting Alban’s head up from where he’s trying to stare at the floor. “Would you like to spend some time alone with me?”

“Oh,” Alban breathes. He drops his hands to Percy’s wrist, pulling it to his chest. “I would like that very much if you are amenable.”

Rising to his feet, Percy laughs and helps Alban up from his chair. “More than amenable,” he says. 

He pays their tab and keeps an arm around Alban’s waist as they descend to the lower floors where Alban’s temporary quarters are located. Once they are inside the sparsely appointed room and have lit a lantern on the nightstand, Alban hurries to shed his doublet but Percy stops him from going further with a gentle push that walks him back to the bed. 

“Please,” he murmurs. “Allow me.”

Alban shivers, hands coming to rest on Percy’s hips, and nods. 

Percy crowds him against the mattress frame and slides a warm, dry palm up the front of Alban’s linen shirt, taking hold of the first button between his thumb and forefinger. A gentle tug opens his collar, exposing a small triangle of smooth, snow-white skin. 

Alban's hands tremble when he reaches out to undo Percy's belt but Percy ignores the gesture altogether in favor of working his fingers into the next button of Alban's shirt, then the next, until his chest is completely bare. He flattens his hand against Alban's torso, trailing his fingers up to his neck, raising goosebumps in their wake, and lets his fingertips catch his chin, tilting his head back. 

He turns Alban's face to the light; watches him swallow as hunger begins to settle in. He parts his lips and presses them to the soft flesh of Alban's throat, teeth grazing the excited breaths that jitter through him, and flutters his tongue against the sensitive shell of his ear, drawing a stilted moan from Alban. His hands grip Percy, body swaying, and Percy slides Alban’s shirt off in one, fluid motion before urging him to lie down, stripping the trousers down his long legs in the same moment. 

Alban tries to reach for Percy’s waistband but Percy just hushes him with two fingers on his chest to hold him still, keeping him on his back so Percy can take a good look at him. 

Alban reminds him of a swan: lithe, graceful limbs and hair so light and fine that Percy only knows it’s there by touch. Lean muscles shift restlessly beneath thin, translucent skin and the lines of blue veins and his delicate pallor conceal the strength Percy can feel under his hands.

“Beautiful,” he says between breaths. 

Alban flushes clear down to his chest and turns his face into the blankets with a muffled moan that makes Percy grin wickedly.

He bows his head so that he can begin to pepper kisses down the sharp edge of Alban’s jaw, along the mark on his cheek, and swipes a thumb over the hard bud of his nipple. 

“Oh my, you like that, don’t you?” He teases, biting at Alban’s ear. “Being told you’re beautiful.”

Alban’s eyes are hazy and his nod a little desperate when he blinks up at Percy, voice reedy as he croaks, “Yes. Do--do it again.”

“If only you could see yourself,” Percy’s voice, deepened by desire, rumbles in his chest as he obeys, pleased by the way Alban starts to squirm below him. “Gorgeous.”

His hand drifts down Alban’s stomach to his cock.

“So responsive.”

He squeezes gently, making Alban’s hips jerk, and begins to down up his length, thumb circling the head to catch the first beads of arousal that leak heavier with each slow, experimental touch.

“So good for me, aren’t you, dove?” 

Long fingers yank at Percy’s shirt to pull him upright again and Alban paws incessantly at the fabric. “Off,” he commands, breathless. “I want to see you too.”

It’s quick work to shuck off his clothes and climb into the bed to straddle Alban, grinding their hips together. In stark contrast to Alban, Percy is broad and thick, covered everywhere in dark hair, and his weight pins Alban in place, not that he seems eager to be elsewhere. Alban devours the sight of Percy’s body on his, hands surging to touch him too; to knead his fingers into the meat of his thighs and the soft curve that runs between Percy’s hips and belly. 

He pauses at Percy’s ribs, though, curious eyes following the faded white lines of the scars below each pectoral.

“Is this all right?” Alban asks. 

It warms Percy that Alban thought to check and he covers Alban’s hand with his own, drawing him in to feel the thud of his heart beating in his chest as he bends to claim Alban’s lips in a fierce kiss. Alban’s hardness slides between them, hot and slick, and Percy can’t stop the throaty groan of pleasure that he breathes into Alban’s mouth.

Percy moves back to sit on his heels at the same time he grips both of Alban’s ankles and yanks his legs up to drape over Percy’s wide shoulders, pulling his hips up. He gives Alban half a second to get comfortable then licks a long, slow stripe down his dick.

Alban gasps. His head drops to the mattress, breaths quick, and he fists his hands into the sheets while Percy curls his tongue around his heavy girth, raw and wet, teasing him with laps and hot sighs against his skin. His fingers fly to tangle in Percy’s hair when Percy finally swallows him, a choked moan breaking the air, and his thighs tremble with the effort it takes not to clamp them around Percy’s head. A loss of composure is precisely what Percy is seeking, however, so he takes a handful of Alban’s ass and hollows his cheeks, wondering how long he can squeeze before bruises will start to blossom on Alban’s alabaster flesh. 

Alban bucks hard. His prick pushes past Percy’s soft palate but he’s ready for it and breathes out through his nose to take him fully, until he can nose into light, wiry curls. Steadily, he draws up then bobs down. Spit dribbles down his chin as he settles into a punishing rhythm that makes Alban’s chest heave and Percy has to hug an arm around his hips to keep him from writhing out of grip Percy has on him.

Percy’s other hand falls to the burning heat between his legs. His own sex throbs, warm slick matting the hair inside his thighs, and the relief he gets when he finally slips two fingers inside himself is so immediate, it’s almost painful. He plunges his fingers in and out of his dripping slit, thumb circling the hood of his cock, and briefly forgets how to breath around the dick in his mouth, swallowing hard to keep from choking on his own pleasure.

When his eyes focus again, Alban is looking right at him. His lips are red and bitten, parted by ragged breaths, and his expression is downright ravenous, undisguised lust present in every line of his face as he watches Percy shamelessly fuck himself on his fingers, lips stretched around Alban’s cock. His whole body trembles, belly clenching, and Percy takes him as deep as he possibly can.

When Alban comes, he bites off a cry into his fist; tries to hide his face in the sheets despite all of Percy’s squeezing encouragement, shaking bodily as the heat rushes out of him and straight down Percy’s throat. Percy closes his eyes and swallows, slowing down so that he can suck Alban clean without overwhelming him, and pulls off only when the other man has gone boneless in his arms. Mindful of their position, he scoots back so that he can gently lay Alban straight again, stroking a hand up and down his leg to help bring him back to Earth.

While Alban recovers, Percy focuses on bringing himself off, body going taut as his orgasm pulses sparks of bright white behind his eyes and a gush of hot slick coats his fingers. He throws his head back, spreading his knees, and rides out the aftershocks with blissful abandon, heart jumping when he feels Alban’s palms come down on his thighs.

Panting hard, Percy cracks his eyes open. Alban has sat up just enough to reach for him, to rake his fingernails against Percy’s flushed skin, and he stares at Percy with such sweet adoration that Percy can’t resist falling into his chest with a sloppy, satisfied smile. He wraps his arms around Alban, rolling them over so that Alban can sprawl on top of him, and holds him close for the long, quiet moment they spend kissing.

When it feels like he can breathe again, Percy gives them both a cursory wipe with his shirt and turns his head so he can face Alban. At some point, his long, blonde hair broke free of the ribbon that held it back and it fans around him now like a halo, tickling Percy’s neck.

Percy lifts a hand so he can tuck a stray, damp lock behind Alban’s ear, cupping his cheek.

“Feel better?” He asks.

Alban sighs, tired, but his eyes shimmer in the low lamplight and he relaxes into the embrace, fingertips tracing absent patterns over Percy’s belly.

“Much better,” he confirms, voice thick with fatigue. He kisses the top of Percy’s shoulder. “Thank you.”

Percy smiles. “My pleasure,” he says. “Come find me at the tavern if you’d like to play again.”

“Truly?”

“I’ll be better prepared next time,” Percy yawns. He can feel sleep pulling at him but his motivation to hobble home is waning. “Would you mind if I stayed over tonight?” He asks.

“That would be _my_ pleasure,” Alban smiles. His arms tighten around Percy to punctuate his answer, burrowing into his side, and he hums happily when Percy does the same. 

As sleep overtakes them, the last thought Percy has is that he owes Vasco a beer. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alban De Sardet belongs to [Jonny!](https://the-bitchelor-de-sardet.tumblr.com/) Thank you for your request and letting me play with Alban!


End file.
